


Ghosts

by Lady_in_Red



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Revenge, Westeros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 10:04:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9716783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_in_Red/pseuds/Lady_in_Red
Summary: In World War II-era Westeros, Brienne has spent years plotting to avenge Renly Baratheon when the opportunity finally arises.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I originally wrote this years ago as part of a much larger work, but that never materialized. I always liked this bit that I did manage to write and figured I'd post it.

Two men were already wrestling with the gangplank when Brienne staggered onto the dock.

"Shove off,” one said gruffly, eyeing her filthy clothes.

“I booked passage,” she said, her voice rough from disuse and her teeth chattering with cold. She’d been riding a stolen motorcycle all day, praying no one would stop her, praying she wouldn’t have to stop and steal more gas, praying she really did have a ticket for this ship.

A third man standing on the deck looked at her with unconcealed contempt. “Name?” he asked, pulling a notebook from his breast pocket.

For an instant, Brienne’s mind went blank. This morning she’d been Martyn Storm, but she’d shredded those papers bit by bit and left them along the road between here and Winterfell. She never booked transport in her own name, and Jaime wouldn’t have made that mistake either. He would have used the name he gave her.

“Joanna Hill,” Brienne finally blurted out.

The man consulted his book, frowned. “Cabin 4. Don't you have a trunk?”

Brienne shook her head, trying desperately not to look as relieved as she felt. He’d come through, thank the gods. She had no idea where this ship was bound, but as long as it wasn’t Dragonstone, she didn’t care.

The men held down the gangplank as she boarded the ship, pulling it up behind her. Another five minutes and she would have missed the ship. Brienne needed every bit of the last of her strength to find and navigate the steep stairs leading below decks. The cabin marked 4 was locked. She cried with frustration, slamming one cold-numbed fist against the wood.

The door fell open and startled green eyes met hers.

Brienne almost said his name, but stopped herself just in time, stumbling into the room, into his arms, as he pushed the door closed behind her.

“You’re freezing,” Jaime murmured, strong hands holding her up. He walked them back toward the bunk beds anchored to one wall, golden light from a single lantern falling across his face. There was more silver in his hair, but his eyes were unchanged.

“You’re here,” was all Brienne could answer, afraid if she said more her chattering teeth would bite her tongue.

His message had reached her two days ago, via the only courier they both trusted. Brienne’s heart had leapt and fallen when she saw Pod standing in the yard at Winterfell. Jaime only risked sending Pod when it was urgent. Otherwise they relied on hidden caches and coded messages to trade information and set meetings. Neither side would condone their private truce.

Brienne had carried the message tucked inside her sleeve for hours, until she could be alone in the bathroom long enough to decipher the message. QUEEN’S MEN MUTINY. NIGHT OF FULL MOON. GET OUT. WHITE HARBOR. TITAN’S DAUGHTER.

How Jaime had discovered the mutineers’ plans she couldn't guess, but it had given Brienne the opportunity she’d been waiting for to avenge Renly. And she’d taken it, in the early hours of the following morning. Brienne had been running ever since, but she’d never expected to find Jaime here. As far as she’d known he was still in the capital, over a thousand miles south.

He pulled the black cap off her brutally short-cropped blonde hair, peeled off her mud-spattered coat, unwound the heavy woolen scarf from her neck, hissing as he dropped it to the floor. “What happened?” Jaime asked, fingertips brushing gently along her throat.

Brienne had forgotten there would be bruises, large ones. That morning felt so far away, though mere hours had passed since Stannis stood before her, blue eyes filled with fear, blood bubbling from his lips. But he had fought back, his hands closing around her throat as she plunged the knife in again and twisted. Brienne's vision was darkening when Stannis's hands slipped from her neck, his body sliding gracelessly to the floor. The triumph Brienne had expected to feel had dissipated by the time she’d knocked out a sentry in the garage and stolen a motorcycle.

When the chaos settled, someone might notice she was missing, but she would hardly be the only one. Men deserted all the time. They would find no clues in Brienne’s tiny room anyway. Everything important was sewn into the lining of her coat. A lock of Lady Sansa’s hair, three sets of false IDs, Westerosi and Braavosi cash, a pocket multi-tool, a switchblade, and a pistol.  

Jaime’s hand stilled, reached down to grasp hers. He held them up. Her sleeves were splashed with blood, rusty brown mixing with the mud that had seeped through her coat to stain her shirt. His eyes regarded her with suspicion. “What did you do?”

Brienne smiled sadly. “What I swore to do.”

“Stupid girl,” Jaime muttered. He’d said exactly the same thing the first time she told him her plans, back in the Riverlands when he was in so much pain he’d begged her to cut off his injured hand. She hadn’t, a fact he’d thanked her for on numerous occasions since then.

Brienne would never tell him he was right. Years of righteous fury, years of grief, and all she’d felt was sick.

Jaime dropped her hands, turned his attention to her sodden clothes. He shook his head, frowning at her. “Did you drive through every puddle between here and Winterfell? I think this shirt used to be white.” 

Brienne felt the blush heating her face. If she looked half as grimy as she felt, she must be a mess. Her socks squelched in mud-caked boots, grit scraped her calves under stiff, wet trousers. She sucked in a deep breath, redolent of dirt, coppery blood, and stale sweat. Fear and death, so strong she could taste them.

Brienne reached awkwardly for the laces of her boots, not wanting to soil the clean bedding by sitting on the bunk.

Jaime crouched before her. “Let me do that,” he insisted, unlaced her stiff boots, eased them off along with her socks.

The floor was cold and rough under her feet, but already Brienne felt cleaner, lighter. She didn’t want Stannis’s uniform on her body, Stannis’s blood on her skin. She fumbled at her shirt buttons with shaking fingers.

Jaime stood and gently pushed her hands away, hesitated, sought out her gaze, the question clear on his face. He was the last person Brienne wanted to see her this way, and the only person she trusted enough to get this close.

Brienne nodded, stared resolutely just over his shoulder as Jaime made swift work of unbuttoning her shirt. This was nothing he hadn’t seen before, though last time her breasts hadn’t been bound. As if it mattered.  With her broad shoulders, coarse features, and flat chest, Brienne had passed for a man at Winterfell with little effort. People saw what they expected to see. She’d learned that long ago.

Jaime had never bothered pretending at modesty, but he'd always respected hers when he could. Strange, to fret over bare skin when Jaime knew every failure, every weakness, every place she was soft and vulnerable.

Jaime peeled the damp, stained shirt away, his thumbs grazing her clavicle and sending a shiver down her spine. He tossed the shirt behind him, hesitating briefly with one hand teasing the edge of the fraying bandage binding her breasts. Brienne shivered again as his hands skimmed down to her belt, unbuckled it, and unfastened the button. Her muddy trousers clung resolutely to her legs.

She shoved at the uncooperative trousers and Jaime bent again to help her, easing the coarse fabric down past her thighs, her knees, her calves. Brienne nearly toppled as she stepped out of the trousers, seizing Jaime’s shoulder for balance. He waited until she was steady again, then fetched a basin filled with water from a desk in the corner of the cabin.

She tried to stop shivering, hugging her arms over her meager chest, but it was no use. Jaime murmured apologies for the cold water as he rinsed the dirt from her skin. It had been months since anyone had shown her this much care, and then it was Lady Sansa’s maid, struggling desperately to make Brienne presentable.

Jaime was not a timid maid. His shirt sleeves were pushed up to keep them out of the water as he crouched before her, washing the worst of the grime from her legs with strong hands. She closed her eyes, the sight of him kneeling at her feet too much to take.

Brienne spared a brief thought that she might enjoy this under different circumstances. If she weren't bloody, filthy, and unshaven. But Jaime would not be here, watching her so intently while she stood nearly bare before him, if she hadn’t finally revenged her king. He was only taking care of her the way she’d done for him.

Brienne swayed on her feet. The memory of the knife sliding smoothly under Stannis Baratheon’s ribs intruded every time her eyes closed. Her dreams would be bloody tonight. Renly with blood bubbling on his lips. Jaime screaming while she worked to free his broken arm from the blood-slick handcuffs still attached to the car door. She braced herself against the top bunk as a wave of nausea threatened to buckle her knees.

“Sit,” he ordered, and Brienne complied gratefully. Jaime continued, mumbling irritably every time he encountered an unfamiliar scar or fading bruise. The water was dark with dirt when he finished and wrapped her tightly in a thick blanket.

“Sleep, Brienne. I’ll find you something to eat.”

As he turned to leave, Brienne seized his wrist. “Jaime,” was all she could say, imploring.  _ Don’t leave me. _

He nodded, and she let go. Jaime locked the door and wedged a chair under the handle.

Brienne lay down on the narrow bed, closed her eyes, listening to the familiar sounds as he shrugged out of his shirt, took off his boots, and his pants and belt hit the floor.

The edge of the blanket lifted and cold air rushed into her warm cocoon, making Brienne shiver. But then Jaime was beside her, the clean, comforting scent of him filling the space beneath the blanket. Brienne turned to him, molded herself against him as his arms encircled her.

They’d slept in the same bed before, huddled together for warmth or simply to maintain their cover. The few times they’d arranged to meet since King’s Landing, they’d always met in out of the way inns, one room booked for Arthur and Joanna Hill. The first time had been by chance, at an inn in the Riverlands. They’d drunk too much, talked too late into the night, and by morning arranged the caches they would use to exchange information and set meetings. 

Three years had passed that way, meeting two or three times a year, exchanging messages when they could. It was foolish on both their parts, but Brienne wouldn’t apologize for her friendship with Jaime. He was the one constant in her life, the one person who’d never lied to her. The irony of that never failed to amuse her.

“Will you tell anyone? What I did?” Brienne’s head rested on his shoulder, her face hidden from his view. She could feel his heartbeat under her hand pressed against his chest. To many, her actions were treason, but if anyone understood treason, Jaime did.

Jaime was quiet a minute, one hand playing idly with the bandage wrapped around her chest and back. “No. The Queen’s Men will take credit. You were never there.”

“Where was I?” Brienne yawned, snuggling closer to him. Safe. She hadn’t felt safe in so long.

“Braavos. Chasing ghosts.”

 


End file.
